No Miracles
by quinault
Summary: A young Tom Riddle reflects on his life during an annual visit to the Christmas Eve church service with the other orphanage children. [oneshot]


The churchyard was still under the moonlight. Somewhere in the distance a clock chimed ten o'clock before being quickly drowned out by the chatter of the children clamouring around him, blowing into frozen hands and hopping from foot to foot, impatient to get into the warm shelter of the church.

Tom hated the annual Christmas service.

The crowds and the incessant, vapid chatter had a way of draining him like nothing else.

Not to mention the sheer hypocrisy of it all. As he waited with the rest he could already picture the lines by the collection box, the mindless, tearful chanting about the nobility of the poor and the suffering. But Tom knew the way they would all hurry past the beggars on the street, handkerchiefs pressed to their nose and eyes resolutely forward. He knew the way they would sneak their wailing bundles by the stack of firewood in the back of the orphanage so as not to be seen, easy as they were dropping off an unwanted package at the Salvation Army. Already the nursery was overflowing with the little nuisances. It had been hard enough before to carry off the few decent books he'd been able to find from the school master's private collection—_strictly off limits to schoolchildren!_ The old codger had sputtered when he'd politely inquired after one lesson, and then had been too blind to see him snag the key to the cabinet straight off his desk—but now it was near impossible to read more than a few pages at a time, what with the chorus of banshees screaming at all hours of the day and night.

_Still better than this sorry show._ Tom thought, shifting uncomfortably in the musty smelling and slightly too tight formal jacket that had been slipped over his head like a strait jacket. The other children were equally twitchy, tugging at tight collars or too-short sleeves of the 'good clothes' that were never mended, only kept locked up in a special dresser to be brought out for special occasions—charity visits by orphanage patrons, the occasional school outings and of course, the Christmas service where their usual button-downs were all of a sudden not 'good enough.'

"Seems we've got 'em all here, Mrs Cole." One of the matrons was saying by the church doors. A bespectacled little thing hired just the week before to replace those who had a family to return to for the holidays. She wrung her hands as she threw a glance at the impatient crowd, bustling to get inside.

"Now listen here" Mrs Cole's scanned the crowd with hawkish eyes. "There will be no mischief inside the church. I will have no comments on the behaviour of the Wool's children tonight, do you understand?"

She nodded once she was satisfied with the chorus of _Yes, Mrs Cole_ that followed, and then they were being ushered through the church doors. It took a few moments for Tom's eyes to adjust to the darkness of the foyer, lit only by a solitary candle tucked in an alcove above their heads. From behind the heavy double doors leading into the service Tom could hear the faint hum of conversation mingled with the high, eerie notes of an organ being practiced upon. Mrs Cole put a finger to her lips and they were marched forth in crocodile columns down rows of what he could see was a packed congregation. Candles dotted each of the benches throwing the faces of the parishioners into shadowy relief—well-dressed men and women who sat clutching evening programs. A hush fell as they turned away from their neighbours to eye the new arrivals shuffling down the aisle. Perhaps sensing the frigid stares, Tom was nudged along with the others towards an unoccupied row near the front. A little girl in a red beret snickered as he passed before the mother was able to clap a hand over her mouth. _Ugly cow._ Tom bit the inside of his cheek.

"Now that we are all gathered" a white-bearded man that Tom recognized as the pastor boomed by the altar. "I would like to welcome you all, new and old faces alike, to the St Andrews Christmas Eve service. I invite you to join me as we start the evening off with a prayer."

Tom focused on the patterns of the wooden bench in front of him in an effort to tune out the words. It was bad enough to sit through Father MacAuley's droning Sunday services but the holiday sermons with their rambling, barely cohesive liturgy were an inspired form of torture, not the least because the sermons hardly varied from year to year, down to the hymns that were sung. Sitting at the organ he could already see the veiny hands of the subdeacon flipping through a well-worn copy of a hymn book. He waited until the good Father's Amen was heard before jumping into the first notes of _Hark! The Herald Angels Sing._

Bored at straining his eyes at the miniscule gradations of the bench Tom's gaze wandered to the bible tucked into the bench in front of him. Its leather was scratched and well-worn, along with the shiny lettering of its cover. He'd taken to reading it once years ago, cover to cover because there had been nothing else to occupy the time with, and it was always the easiest book to find lying around at the orphanage. The whole thing was ridiculous, of course, resurrections and immaculate births, and a silly man with long hair weeping as he hugged sheep. It was no better than one of those stupid story books with the talking animals and fairy princesses the girls wouldn't shut up about in their elaborate games in the yard.

_If God really is everywhere,_ he'd confronted one of the matrons once, the one with the cross around her neck that had quit after three weeks, _how come he'll let the devil have his way and not do a thing to stop him?_

That had earned him an earful and six of the 'best ones.' Tom gritted his teeth at the memory, almost feeling the sting of the scars on his back, the humiliation at knowing they were not won from a worthy foe but an ugly old coot. He would have taken any playground scuffle of bloody knees and chipped teeth to the smell of carbolic soap as he had heaved over those freshly scrubbed floors.

It was different when it was on the playground. Different when it had been that imbecile Jack Harris. He couldn't have been older than eight years old**. **He remembered Mrs Cole yanking the brush through his hair, tangled from the way the brute had dug his meaty fists in. _Motherless freak_ the boy had spit at him, as though it had done _him_ any good having one. Tom had seen the haggard skinny looking woman that would pace in front of the gates from time to time before one of the matrons would come down and shoo her away. _We do not entertain your kind on our premises. Take your business elsewhere._ She had turned vicious the one time, he remembered, screaming to see her son before clawing Mrs Pritchett across the face like a wild animal. But mostly she would stumble off once she was handed a pence or two.

_Better no mother than a whore for one!_

He hadn't known what it meant then, only echoing the matrons' whispers in the common room when he was supposed to be asleep. But Jack had been older. And he'd turned bright red in fury.

Even now Tom felt a stirring of pride at how hard he'd fought back even when the larger boy's punch had knocked the wind out of him. Even when the second one had knocked him to the ground and sent his brain rattling he had continued kicking. And when one of his kicks landed on the boy's jaw and split his lip clean open…

He remembered the thrill of that too.

_Unclean child._ Mrs Cole had muttered rubbing the rag furiously across the palms of his hands caked with a mix of dirt and blood. But they had both known the blood wasn't his.

"You cannot choose family, Tom" she'd finally stated, meeting his eye. "What might have happened had we turned away your own mother from our door?"

He remembered feeling like he'd been slapped. He'd been told the story countless times before, of course. How he had been born right there in the orphanage, how his worthless mother had died straight after, leaving him nothing but a worthless name. Tom had tried to imagine what she'd looked like once, raising his brows and contorting his face in the pocket mirror he'd taken off of one of the vainer matrons. _She was a plain thing;_ Mrs Cole had once said. _Haunted._ He'd have liked to believe she was beautiful in spite of everything, like the schoolmaster's wife who would visit occasionally with the basket of fruit cake and would smile down at him with her pearly teeth—and clever too. But how clever could she have been to get herself in that, that _state_ and die like a dog?

"And so we come to the table where bread and wine is blessed, broken and shed. In remembrance of Christ who brings light, hope and friendship to all who believe and trust in him. And may the God of all healing and forgiveness draw you to himself that you may behold the glory of his Son, the word made flesh, and be cleansed from all your sins through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."

_Amen_ the congregation echoed. One of the boys next to him leaned to whisper in his companion's ear. Their snickering attracted contemptuous glances.

There was shuffling as everyone got to their feet. The organ began sounding the first few notes of _Joy to the World._

He felt a surge of fury at the sight of Mrs Cole singing proudly in the front row, back straight as an ironing board. It had been she who'd poisoned the minds of the other matrons against him after the 'incident' as she'd called it.

Nothing but grey porridge and water for a week and Jack smirking at him across the dining hall before digging into the pudding. And the way the matrons' eyes had followed him across the hall, in the schoolroom when they thought he wasn't aware. Watching, waiting, _thinking_—he hated that most of all. He fancied he could even hear them sometimes—the little thoughts marching through their narrow little minds like soldiers on parade. Always the same hum in the background.

_There is something not right with this boy._

In a way they were right. He was not like the other children. He was better. Only they were all too stupid to see it, and so he had to remind them from time to time. He remembered stumbling upon Billy Stubbs' secret in the garden, how the snivelling idiot had jumped clutching the furry creature to his side as though to shield it from his sight. It was a small thing really, he remembered wondering how it could survive when nothing remained of the communal vegetable plot he and the other children had to keep up for the majority of the year but a few shriveled and brown plants. _He must be sneaking him food_ he'd thought. He wanted the pitiful creature for himself. Billy Stubbs had been careful though, and it had been nearly a week of following and watching before he'd managed to find the thing—an abandoned and half-broken chicken coop nestled in a pair of prickly bushes. He'd never had a pet before, and he'd only wanted to hold the thing—see whether it was as soft and warm as it looked. But as soon as he'd picked it up the thing had started squealing and kicking to be let loose. And then it had bit him. He'd cursed and squeezed it tighter and then tighter until it had stopped kicking. Until it had turned limp and lifeless in his hands. He remembered the way his stomach had turned when he'd realized there were actually tears in his eyes. For months now he had been aware of the power he had over animals. He only needed to beckon with his mind and the snakes would come slithering, sometimes from their stony crevices, sometimes from the cracks of the walls themselves. In the bible the serpent was supposed to be deceitful. It had a slippery tongue it had used to tempt Eve to taste the fruit of the tree of good and evil. But Tom only needed to command the serpents before they would bend their heads and do his bidding. He'd asked the Sunday school instructor once what it would mean to control the serpent, but he'd only been told it was impossible. That the serpent was Satan himself—his own master. But Tom had thought of the way the little garden snake would stare and bob its head when he whispered to him and he had known even the greatest sinner could be made to bow. And if it wouldn't…

"And on behalf of the church—" Father MacAuley addressed the congregation, scanning the faces staring back in the fatherly way he was wont.

"—I would like to additionally extend my thanks for your continuing generosity this past year. As you know, the late Reverend Casey's cause is one that is as dear to my heart as it was to his, and with all of your help I am happy to say we have raised more than five hundred pounds for the education of disadvantaged children overseas!" He paused for the pleased murmuring to quiet down before continuing. "Though much works remains to be done in the more provincial schools, it is also important to address the needs on the home front**—**_our own children_" he emphasized, drawing out every syllable.

"When I first visited the Wool's institution a year ago I was struck by the sheer wretchedness of the conditions I witnessed. An existence that was…. Dirty and barren. Unfit for children. I was informed by one Miss Finch that for a period of time there were hardly shoes to go around!"

Tom spotted the matron in question sitting stiff and pale down the row, and couldn't help the twitch of his lips. Bit of juicy gossip—no doubt Father MacAuley had been a friendly ear enough, but in the front row Mrs Cole was not smiling.

"—which is why I am so proud to announce that all the proceeds from this season's charity work will go to support the children of Wool's. Let us have a round of applause for them now!"

There was a begrudging air in the light spattering of clapping that followed. Tom suddenly felt exposed, every eye in the place trained upon him, looking at him, placing him mentally with the other children like he was one of their kind. He could hear them making assumptions about exactly the sort he was. _They're still dirty in spite of it_, he imagined the old woman in the bonnet laughing. _Our hard-earned money for that lot?_ The one in the costly suit no doubt turned to mutter. _Bad stock from filthy homes, nothing more to it_. Smug and self-satisfied. His whole body shook in rage. It was them who were the lackwits! They knew nothing about him. They didn't know he could do things. They didn't know he could hurt them all if he wanted to, just like how he'd hurt Billy Stubb's stupid rabbit. Just like how he'd hurt Amy Benson in that cave. _Please, Tom._ the snivelling milksop had wailed while the other one had simply stood there, petrified, watching the snake slowly coil around her neck. _Please, Tom make it stop!_

* * *

Tom stood in the churchyard after the service. Around him people streamed out of the church doors as the matrons dashed about rounding up the children that had got scattered. By the pavement families stood chatting, extending hands and holiday greetings they had not had the chance to inside. He watched a woman in a pink shawl throw back a head of curls as she laughed at something another woman coyly remarked. In front of her a sleek black car in a growing lineup replaced another that drove off and a boy and girl, bundled up from head to foot, raced to get in. He caught a flash of the amicable smile the man in the driver's seat threw them over his shoulder, the woman in the passenger seat reaching back to wipe something off the girl's face before the boy slammed the door shut.

The walk back to the orphanage was colder than before, each crunch of his footsteps in the snow driving a chill up his body. Tom thought of the same people on the pavement, fattening themselves on a Christmas turkey and pudding, running their mouths by the Christmas fire. In the morning there would be gifts under the tree and a senile grandmother watching them get torn apart with an inane smile. It'd be the good toys. The painted planes and toy soldiers the other orphanage boys would cry over passing Woolworth's on their rare city outings. His breathing came shallow and fast, making a fog in the night air. There would be no gifts waiting for him at the orphanage, and no parents to smile and pat like the ones in the car.

He knew what he did have though—it was wild and inexplicable and it was _his, all his_, and no amount of canings could beat it out of him. He remembered the cave, the way Amy Benson had twisted and screamed. The way it had echoed off the walls and Dennis Bishop had scrambled in the dark for the way out, scampering on his hands and knees. He remembered the way his heart had pounded, how his lips had trembled so much he could barely control the creature.

And his hate had done that. His hate and his magic.

There were no stars in the inky blackness of the night sky but he made a promise anyway. He would hate stronger, better, than he'd ever hated before. If the world gave him nothing he would take what he wanted by force. One day he would grow strong enough to bring them all to their knees.


End file.
